


Consume

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Face-Sitting, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rimming, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it’s an act of war, an escalation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consume

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon prompt: _Any chance I can prompt you for some Will learning to love rimming Hannibal?_
> 
> Turns out, yes, there was a very good chance of that *g*

The first time it’s an act of war, an escalation.

 

Sex had seemed to happen as a way of attacking, in a time and place where actually attacking would have been counter-productive to mutual survival. It bled through too, no doubt, from the mutual acts of physical care their injuries necessitated, counterbalancing the tender with something intended to overwhelm.

 

That’s how Will’s seeing his actions, anyway, when he sucks another hickey into the chain he’s making alongside the inside of Hannibal’s left thigh, and then, riding the high of that, urges Hannibal over – Will’s got already him panting, boneless – and for the first time puts his mouth to the cleft of Hannibal’s ass.

 

Under him, Hannibal gasps, chokes a bit, makes a sort of half a noise, tries to rise slightly on one knee to get either closer or further away – whichever, Will won’t allow any of it. He’s suffered through everything Hannibal’s wanted to do to him in either of their beds, the aching-slow blowjobs and the weird (incredible) toe thing and the time Hannibal had sat on his cock despite being barely stretched and Will had gone cross-eyed and come in less than ten seconds.

 

This? This is revenge, pure and simple, and Will points his tongue and stabs – he’s going off eating out tips on Google here, but it’s not like there’s a vast array of options and it seems to work – and Hannibal groans and flutters and shoots all over the super-expensive sheets and Will rolls off, victorious, vicious, smacking lips against teeth.

 

-

 

Thing is, its not like there aren’t quite a lot of ways Will has found to get the effects he wants out of Hannibal’s body.

 

And oh Christ, Hannibal’s body, the deadly strength of him coiled in every muscle, the thought of what those hands have done, what those eyes have seen, what that stomach has digested – like lying down with a tiger, or not even that, a great white shark, something cold, unyielding, not for a pack.

 

Except Hannibal curls into him, at times, and if Will touches him just right – if he runs the pads of two fingers up the base of Hannibal’s cock and rubs at the spot just under the head, if he bites him hard enough, long enough, if he puts his mouth to Hannibal’s ass and _relishes_ – Hannibal makes a sound like the smallest cub that ever needed anything.

 

And that’s a weapon. That’s a form of attack, one Will obviously has to exploit, now more than ever.

 

So there are, he discovers afresh every day - pages slipping off the calendar, sun rising and setting over the Atlantic through their amazing picture windows, books and meals and fish skeletons piling up - a great many ways to touch Hannibal.

 

But then, some of the things they do make Will feel different than others. They pretty much all get him off – being remotely around Hannibal, to be honest, gets him off, which… whatever, Alana was attracted to Hannibal too, people of all sorts clearly always have been, it’s not something that needs examining – but he finds the second and then the third time he tries, that tasting, licking, mouthing, _eating_ Hannibal there, in his darkest most private place, feels so achingly good it might be blinding.

 

-

 

“Get on the bed,” Will spits.

 

It’s been the kind of day that makes him burn. He woke just after dawn, covered in sweat, another nightmare – on the beach, on the cold beach at the bluff, and this time Hannibal was dead and Will had shaken him and shaken him and he hadn’t…

 

After a while, Hannibal, rumpled in pajama trousers, had come from his own room to the kitchen, where Will had been marinating in frustration and chamomile tea, curled over a copy of Plutarch. Classical authors can be strangely calming – three thousand years or more ago, and the same shit going down. Time is a circle, and maybe nothing will ever be OK, or could be, or needs to be.

 

Rather than let Will be, or probe the nature of his distress as he might once have done, Hannibal had placed a hand on his shoulder; flat, soothing, warm.

 

Will had gone out, walked the cliff path for most of the day, furious, kicking stones into oblivion, running into flocks of seagulls to make them wheel and scream and fly away for him, where he could not.

 

Getting back to the white house in its seat of purple heather, he’d seen in Hannibal’s face how much worry he’d caused, how much pain – and he knows pain on Hannibal, where no other would see anything but calm, and he knows pain on Hannibal of a kind no other has ever caused.

 

“Take your clothes off,” Will commands now, and reaches out, ripping down Hannibal’s trousers, pushing up his shirt, the minimum for access.

 

“You may wish to be aware that I have not yet… showered,” Hannibal murmurs delicately.

 

One knee on Hannibal’s bed, Will pauses, frowns. He’s never questioned Hannibal’s level of cleanliness, and it’s not like he has any other experience for comparison. That Hannibal may have been anticipating, preparing, hoping or planning, is like gasoline to the fire.

 

“Did I ask you to do that for me?” Will reaches out and shoves Hannibal down. “Turn over, let me…” He stops, he wants to scream again.

 

It feels better, once he’s in there, once he’s got his mouth and nose pressed tight and intimate to where Hannibal is perhaps a little more musky than sometimes. That’s good, he finds, that’s going straight to his cock, making him leak and ruin his own pants. His heart is racing with how hot he’s running but it’s good, good, clean in the dirtiest way, he’s feeling ridiculously safe.

 

Hannibal is breathing so hard under him, pulse racing, alive, alive, alive.

 

-

 

The night after that day Will spends in Hannibal’s bed, and he wakes up there for the first time the following morning, and finds himself entirely rested.

 

He’s not used to sharing beds, it tended to be a brief, critical, awkward period in the few relationships he’s had, and he’s going to blame that reflex association – _get this right, be nice, don’t offend, act the part_ – for how when he stretches and swims up to consciousness he briefly thinks of kissing the person lying near him.

 

Hannibal is, naturally, awake and watching and entirely impassive, and he must register the impulse and the denial of it, but he says nothing.

 

Will’s been waiting for punishment, for counter-move, and it comes sure enough – Hannibal’s fingers in him, one and then two and then three and then, impossibly, four, until Will is sobbing and overwhelmed and thrashing his head, lost between pleasure and pain, throbbing, melting, dissolved.

 

Hannibal bites him, after, not very hard but persistent and thorough. It’s not being hugged but it feels a little too much the same, the security, the way it makes his gut unknot and his shoulders loosen.

 

Hannibal’s hands carding through his hair, though, it’s hard to fashion as violence at all.

 

Or the tray of scrambled eggs and salmon, or the bath, or the walk they take, together, to the shore, and the hour or so collecting bright pebbles of amber, survivals of a time beyond time, tree-blood rock-hard and precious.

 

Stones in his pockets, Will looks out to sea, but can’t imagine drowning.

 

Mouth-to-mouth; he kisses Hannibal there, on that shore, the first time.

 

-

 

There’s fucking, of course, full penetration, and that’s far from uninteresting, gets to Will right where it counts whichever way round they are, but he loves putting his tongue in Hannibal more than his cock, and whatever, like that’s the weirdest thing in this situation to get to terms with.

 

They have to keep on the road – there’s a trail to cover, and a world to see, and things they both want to be doing.

 

Both. Together. And talk about blindingly good… Will can’t, even, not yet. Can’t find words, can’t contain in his brain even in memory the thought of their deeds. Too brilliant, too dangerous – staring at the sun, gazing at the abyss. But hand in hand, feeling safer than can be safe.

 

But wherever they are, wherever they’re staying, whatever identity, sooner or later they end up in the bed with Will on his back and Hannibal crouched over him, sitting on his face.

 

Will can’t breathe anything but Hannibal, can’t see, can’t smell, taste, touch, hear anything else.

 

Actually, his life is always like that. Has been for years, and since well before the Dragon made him know it.

 

But Hannibal trembles over him, opening to his tongue, spasming, and Will knows he’s not the only one defeated by this, by them.

 

They hold hands for this too, nails digging. It’s an act of love, an acquiescence.

 

In all ways a consummation.


End file.
